GIFT  OF 
SEELEY  W.  MID!) 

and 

GEORGE  I.  COCHRAN    MEYER  ELSASSER 
DR.JOHNR.  HAYNKS    WILLIAM  L.  HONNOLD 
JAMES  R.  MARTIN         MRS.  JOSEPH  F.  SARTORI 

to  Ike 

UNIVERSITY  OF  CALIFORNIA 
SOUTHERN  BRANCH 


JOHN  FISKE 


PHE    OLD    SOUTH     DDRINO    THE    BEIOE    OF    BOSTON.   1776. 


POEMS 


THE     "OLD     SOUTH" 


HKNRY     WADSWORTH     LONGFELLOW,     OLIVER     WENDELL     HOLMKS, 

JOHN    GREENLEAF    WHITTIER,      JULIA    WARD    HOWE, 

EDWARD        EVERETT        HALE,        AND 

JAMES     FREEMAN     CLARKE. 


BOSTON 

WILLIAM    F.    GILL    &    CO 
1877 


9027T 


Copyright,  1877. 
WILLIAM     F.     GILL. 


Published  tor  the  Benefit  of  the  Old  South  Preservation  Fund. 


Prtst  of 

£oiktotll  *  CfrnrcfciH, 
Borton. 


PS 
5^4- 1 
T15 


CC 

ca 

o> 

H 


CO 
-H 

&. 


A    BALLAD    OF    THE    FRENCH 
FLEET. 

OCTOBER,   1746. 
HENRY    W.   LONGFELLOW. 

MR.   THOMAS    PRINCE  loquitur. 

FLEET    with    flags   arrayed 

Sailed  from  the  port  of  Brest, 
And  the  Admiral's  ship  displayed 

The  signal :  "  Steer  south-west." 
For  this  Admiral  d'Anvillc 

Had  sworn  by  cross  and  crown 
To  ravage  with  fire  and  steel 

Our   helpless    Boston   Town. 


Poems   of  the    Old   South. 

There    were    rumors    in    the    street, 

In    the    houses    there    was    fear 
Of    the    coming    of    the    fleet, 

And    the    danger    hovering    near ; 
And    while    from    mouth    to    mouth 

Spread    the    tidings    of    dismay, 
I    stood    in    the    Old    South, 

Saying   humbly:    "Let    us    pray." 


"O    Lord!    we  would    not    advise; 

But    if,   in    thy   providence, 
A   tempest    should    arise 

To    drive    the    French    fleet  hence, 
And    scatter  it    far  and  wide, 

Or  sink    it    in    the    sea, 
We    should    be    satisfied, 

And    thine    the    glory  be." 


This   was    the    prayer   I    made, 

For  my  soul  was    all    on    flame; 
And    even    as    I    prayed 

The    answering   tempest    came. 
It    came  with    a    mighty   power, 

Shaking    the   windows    and   walls, 
And    tolling    the    bell    in    the    tower 

As    it    tolls    at    funerals. 


Poems   of  the    Old   South. 

The    lightning   suddenly 

Unsheathed    its    flaming   sword, 
And    I    cried :    "  Stand    still    and    see 

The    salvation    of   the    Lord !  " 
The    heavens  were    black  with    cloud, 

The    sea  was  white  with    hail, 
And    ever  more    fierce    and    loud 

Blew  the    October  gale. 


The    fleet    it   overtook, 

And    the    broad    sails    in    the    van 
Like    the    tents    of    Cushan    shook, 

Or   the    curtains    of    Midian. 
Down    on    the    reeling   decks 

Crashed    the    o'erwhelming    seas ; 
Ah,    never   were   there   wrecks 

So    pitiful    as    these ! 


A  Ballad  of  the  French  Fleet, 

Like    a    potter's    vessel    broke 

The    great    ships    of    the    line ; 
They   were    carried    away    as    a    smoke, 

Or   sank    like    lead    in    the    brine. 
O    Lord !     before    thy   path 

They   vanished    and    ceased    to    be, 
When    thou    didst   walk    in   \Vrath 

With    thine    horses    through    the    sea ! 


8 


Poems   of  the    Old   South. 


THE   BRAVE   OLD   SOUTH. 


OLIVER    WENDELL    HOLMES. 


"While   stands   the   Coliseum,  Rome   shall   stand; 
When   falls   the   Coliseum,  Rome   shall   fall." 

ULL   seven-score    years    our    city's    pride 

The    comely    Southern    spire  — 
Has    cast   its    shadow,    and    defied 

The    storm,    the    foe,    the    fire ; 
Sad    is    the    sight    our    eyes    behold ; 

Woe    to    the    three-hilled    town 
When    through    the    land  the   tale   is   told,  — 
"  The    brave    '  Old    South  '    is    down  !  " 


The    Brave    Old    South.  < 

Let    shadows    blot    the    starless    dawn 

That    hears   our    children   tell, 
"  Here   rose    the  walls,  now  wrecked   and   gone, 

Our    fathers    loved    so    well ; 
Here,    while    his    brethren   stood    aloof, 

The    herald's   blast   was    blown 
That    shook    St.    Stephen's    pillared    roof, 

And   wrecked    King    George's    throne ! 


io  Poems   of  the    Old   South. 

"  The    home-bound   wanderer    of    the    main 

Looked    from    his    deck   afar, 
To    where   the    gilded,    glittering   vane 

Shone    like    the   evening   star, 
And    pilgrim    feet    from    every    clime 

The    floor   with    reverence    trod, 
Where    holy  memories    made    sublime 

The    shrine    of    Freedom's    God ! " 


The    darkened    skies,   alas !    have    seen 

Our    monarch    tree    laid    low, 
And    spread    in    ruins    o'er   the    green,  — 

But   Nature    struck   the    blow; 
No    scheming    thrift    its    downfall    planned, 

It   felt   no    edge    of   steel, 
No  soulless    hireling    raised    his   hand 

The    deadly  stroke    to    deal. 


The   Brave    Old   South. 


ii 


In   bridal    garlands,   pale    and    mute, 

Still   pleads    the    storied    tower; 
These    are    the    blossoms,  but   the    fruit 

Awaits   the    golden    shower; 
The    spire    still    greets    the    morning   sun, 

Say,  shall    it    stand    or  fall? 
Help,  ere    the    spoiler  has    begun ! 

Help,  each,  and    God    help    all ! 


12 


Poems   of   the    Old    South. 


THE    OLD    SOUTH. 


JULIA     WARD     HOWE. 

WO   hands    the    God    of    nature    gave, 
One    swift   to  smite,  one  fond    to    save, 
Betwixt    the    cradle    and    the    grave. 

Where  Strength  hews  out  his  stony  stint, 
Where  woods  are  felled  and  metals  blent, 
The  right  hand  measures  his  content. 


Where    Skill    sits    tireless    at   her   loom, 
Where    Beauty  wafts   her   transient   bloom, 
The    tender,    saving   hand    has    room. 


The    Old   South. 


And    Fate,    as    in    a    tourney    fine, 

The    differing    powers    doth    match    and   join, 

That    each    may    wear    the    crown    divine. 

But    manhood,    in    his   zeal    and    haste, 
Leaves    cruel    overthrow    and    waste 
Upon    his   pathway   roughly   traced. 


14  Poems   of  the    Old   South. 

Then   woman    comes   with    patient   hand, 
With    loving   heart   of  high    command, 
To    save    the    councils    of  the    land. 

Round    this    old    church,    so    poor    to    see, 
Record    of  years    that   swiftly   flee, 
She    draws   the    chain    of  sympathy. 

The    men  who    make    their   gold  their   weal, 
Who    guard  with    powder    and    with    steel, 
Have    not   a  weapon   she    can    feel. 

Before   the   venerable   pile, 

Armed   with   a   reason    and    a   smile, 

She    stations,    with    benignant   wile. 

Like    Barbara   Frietchie,   in  her   day, 

She   has    a   royal   will   to    say, 

"You    shall  not   tear   one    stone   away. 


The    Old   South.  15 

"You    disavow    the    spirit    need, 
That    avarice    may    build    with   heed 
The    gilded    monuments    of  greed." 

What   hope,  what   help    compatriots    know? 
Only    this    counter    mandate    slow, 
The    mothers    will    not    have    it    so. 

Mothers !    the    wrongs    of   ages    wait ! 
Amend    them,    ministers    of  fate ! 
Redeem    the    Church,    reform    the    State ! 


1 6  Poems   of  the    Old   South. 


IN    THE    OLD    SOUTH    CHURCH. 

BOSTON,    1677. 
JOHN    GREENLEAF    WHITTIER. 

HE    came    and    stood    in    the    Old    South 

Church, 
A    wonder    and    a    sign, 

With     a     look      the       old-time      sibyls 

wore, 
Half-crazed    and    half-divine. 

Save    the    mournful    sackcloth    about   her   wound, 

Unclothed    as   the    primal    mother, 
With    limbs    that    trembled,  and    eyes    that    blazed 

With    a    fire    she    dare    not   smother. 


In    the     Old    South    Church.  17 

Loose    on    her    shoulder    fell    her    hair, 

With    sprinkled    ashes    gray; 
She    stood    in    the    broad    aisle,    strange    and    weird 

As    a    soul    at    the   judgment-day. 

And    the    minister    paused    in    his    sermon's    midst, 

And    the    people    held    their    breath, 
For    these    were    the    words    the    maiden    said. 

Through    lips    as    pale    as    death :  — 

"  Thus    saith    the    Lord :    '  With    equal    feet 

All    men    my    courts    shall    tread, 
And    priest   and    ruler    no    more    shall    eat 
My    people    up    like    bread ! ' 

"  Repent,  repent !  —  ere    the    Lord    shall    speak 

In    thunder,  and    breaking    seals ! 
Let    all    souls   worship    him    in    the   way 
His    light   within    reveals !  " 


i8 


Poems   of  the    Old    South. 


She    shook   the    dust   from    her    naked    feet, 

And    her   sackcloth    closely    drew, 
And    into    the    porch    of   the    awe-hushed    church 

She    passed    like    a    ghost   from   view. 


In    the     Old    South    Church.  19 

They    whipped    her    away    at    the    tail    o'    the    cart; 

(Small    blame    to    the    angry    town!) 
But    the    words    she    uttered    that    day  nor    fire 

Could    burn    nor    water    drown. 

For    now    the    aisles    of    the    ancient    church 

By    equal    feet    are    trod ; 
And    the    bell    that    swings    in    its    belfry    rings 

Freedom    to    worship    God ! 

And    now,  whenever    a   wrong   is    done, 

It    thrills    the    conscious    walls ; 
The    stone    from    the    basement    cries    aloud, 

And    the    beam    from    the   timber    calls ! 

There    are    steeple-houses    on    every  hand 

And    pulpits    that   bless    and    ban ; 
And    the    Lord  will    not    grudge    the    single    church 

That    is    set    apart    for  man. 


20 


Poems   of  the    Old   South. 


For  in  two  commandments  are  all  the  law 
And  the  prophets  under  the  sun ; 

And  the  first  is  last,  and  the  last  is  first, 
And  the  twain  are  verily  one. 

So    long    as    Boston    shall    Boston    be, 

And    her  bay-tides    rise    and    fall, 
Shall    freedom    stand    in    the    Old    South    Church, 

And    plead    for  the    rights    of    all ! 


The    Old   South    Meeting-House. 


21 


THE   OLD   SOUTH   MEETING 
HOUSE, 

BY   EDWARD    EVERETT    HALE. 


O    hide    the   time-stains    on    our    wall, 
Let    every  tattered    banner    fall ! 
The    Bourbon    lilies,    green    and    old, 
That    flauntered    once,   in    burnished    gold 
The    oriflamme    of  France    that   fell 
That    day    when    sunburned    PepperelL 
His    shotted    salvos    fired    so    well, 
The    Fleur    de    Lys    trailed    sulky    down, 
And    Louisburg    was    George's    town. 
The    Bourbon    yields    it,    in    despair, 
To    Saxon    arm    and    Pilgrim    prayer. 


22  Poems    of  the    Old    South. 

Hang    there    the    Lion    and    the    Tower, 
The    trophies    of    an    earlier    hour, 
Pale    emblems    of   Castilian    pride, 
That    shrouded    Winslow   when    he    died 
Beneath    Jamaica's    palm. 
Hang    there,    and    there,    the    dusty  rags 
Which    once    were    jaunty    battle-flags, 
And,   for    a    week,   in    triumph    vain, 
Gay  flaunted    over    blue    Champlain, 
'Gayly  had    circled    half  the   world, 
Until   they  drooped,    disgraced    and    furled, 
That    day    the    Hampshire    line 
Stood    to    its    arms    at    dress    parade, 
Beneath    the    Stars   and    Stripes    arrayed, 

And    Massachusetts    Pine, 
To    see    the    great    atonement    made 

By  Riedesel    and    Burgoyne. 


The    Old   South    Meeting-House. 


Eagles   which    Caesar's    hand    had    fed, 
Banners   whicn    Charlemagne    had    led 

A   thousand   years    before, 
A    dozing    empire    meanly    gave 
To    be    the    eagles   of   a    slave, 
And    let   the    mean    Elector  wave 

Those    banners    on    our    shore. 


24  Poems   of  the    Old   South. 

The    mean    Elector   basely   sold 
Eagle    and    flag  for   George's   gold ; 

And,    in    the    storm    of   war, 
In    crash    of  battle,    thick    and    dark, 
Beneath    the    rifle-shot    of   Stark, 
The    war-worn    staff,    the    crest    of   gold, 


The    scutcheon    proud    and    storied    fold, 
In    surges    of  defeat  were   rolled ! 
So    even    Roman    banners    fall 
To    screen    the    time-stains    on    our   walls ! 
Beneath    the    war-flag's    faded    fold 
I    see    our    sovereigns    of  old 
On    magic    canvas    there. 


The    Old   South   Meeting-- House.  25 

The    tired    face   of  "  baby    Charles " 
Looks    sadly   down    from    Pilgrim   walls, 

Half  pride    and    half  despair, 
Doubtful    to    flatter    or    to    strike, 

To    cozen    or    to    dare. 
His    steel-clad    charger    he    bestrides, 
As    if  to    smite    the    Ironsides, 
When    Rupert    with    his    squadron    rides ; 
Yet   such   his    gloomy   brow    and    eye, 
You    wonder    if  he   will    not   try 
Once    more    the    magic    of  a   lie 

To    lift    him    from    his    care. 

Hold    still   your   truncheon !       If  it   moves, 
The    ire    of  Cromwell's    rage    it   braves ! 

For    the    next    picture    shows 
The    grim   Protector   on   his    steed, 
Ready  to    pray,    to    strike,    to   lead, 


26  Poems   of  the    Old   South. 

Dare    all    for    England,    which   he    saves, 
New    England,    which    he    loves. 

These    are   Vandycks.       Tis    Kneller   there 
Has    pictured    a    more    peaceful    pair: 
There    Orange    gives   his    last    command, 
The    charter    gives    to   Mather's    hand ; 
And,    blooming   there,    the    queenly   she, 
Who    takes,     "  now   counsel,    and    now   tea," 
Confounding   Blenheim    and    Bohea, 

Careless    of    war's    alarm, 
Yet,    as    of    old    the   virgin    Queen, 
When    armed    for   victory,    might   press 
The    smoky   fire-lock   of    "  Brown   Bess," 
So    Anna,    in    a   fond    caress, 
Rests    on    a   black    "  Queen's    arm." 

Beneath    those    forms    another   band, 
Silent   but  eloquent,    shall    stand. 


The    Old    South   Meeting-House. 


There    is    no    uttered    voice    nor    speech 

As    still    of   liberty    they    teach ; 

No    language    and    no    sound    is    heard, 

Yet    still    the    everlasting    word 

Goes    forth    to    thrill   the    land. 

Story    and    Greenough    shall    compel 

The    silent    marble    forms    to    tell 


28  Poems   of  the    Old   South. 

The    lesson    that   they   told    so   well  — 

Lessons    of   Fate    and    Awe ; 
Franklin    still    point  the    common    place 

Of  Liberty    and    Law. 
Adams    shall    look    in    Otis'    face, 
Blazing   with    Freedom's  soul, 
And    Molyneux  see  Hancock  trace 
The    fatal   word   which    frees    a    race, 
There,   in  New  England's  well-earned   place, 
The    head    of  Freedom's    roll. 

These   are   not   all.     The    past   is   gone, 
But    other   victories    shall    be   won, 
For   which    the    time-worn   tale   we    read 
Is    but   the    sowing   of  the   seed. 
The   harvest   shall  be    gathered   when 
Our    children's    children    meet    again 
Upon   this   time-worn    floor; 


The    Old   South   Meeting-House.  29 

When    ruddy    drops   flush    living    cheek, 

And    tribunes    of  the    people    speak 

As    living    man    can    speak    to    living    men ; 

When    future    Adamses  conspire ; 

When    other    Danas    feed    the    fire, — 

Each    grandson    worthy    of  his    sire ; 

When    other   Phillipses    shall    tell 

Again   the    tale   he   tells    so    well ; 

When    other    Minots    shall    record 

The    victories    of  some    other   Ward, 

And    other    Prescotts    tell    the    story 

Of  other   Warrens'    death    and    glory ; 

When,    in    some    crisis    of  the    land, 

Some    other    Quincy    takes    the    stand, 

To    teach,    to    quicken,   to    command, — 

To    speak    with    prophet's    power 
Of  Liberty    and    Law    combined, 
Of  Justice    close    with    Mercy  joined, 


30  Poems   of  the    Old   South. 

United    in    one    heart    and    mind : 

That    talisman    of  victory    find 

In   which    our    laurels    all    are    twined ; 

And,    for    one    struggle    more, 
Forget   our   things   which    lie    behind 

And    reach    to    those    before ! 


The    "Old   SoutJi"    Speaks.  31 


THE   "OLD    SOUTH"  SPEAKS. 

BY    JAMES    FREEMAN    CLARKE. 

AM    a    building    old    and    famous, 
llf          Which    every    Boston    boy    can    see, 

The    Old    South    Meeting-House    my    name    is, 

That    no    one    else    shall   take  from    me. 
If   any    other    church    has    reckoned 

To    carve    my    name    upon    its    stone, 
Let   that   be    "  Old    South    Church    the    Second," 
Or    "  Old    South,   Junior,"    till    I'm    gone. 

'Tis    true    I'm    old    and    somewhat  lonely, 
My    dear    companions    mostly    fled ; 

Of  all    I    knew    King's    Chapel    only, 

Still   lifts    in    peace    her    old    gray   head. 


32  Poems   of  ihe    Old    South. 

In    our   accordant   bells,    the    story 

Of  foeman    strife    sounds    far    away ; 

I    was    a    Whig    and    she    a    Tory,  — 
But   we    forget    all    that   to-day. 

Sometimes    it    may  have    been   vexatious 

The    Governor    and    suite    to    see 
Go    there   from    out   his    palace    spacious, 

Instead    of  coming   here,  to    me. 
And    then,  when  Andros    seized    our    meeting, 

And    brought   his    prayer-books,  as    you    know, 
No    matter !  —  all    these    griefs    are    fleeting ; 

And    that   was    settled,  long    ago. 

As    business    life    around    us   hardens, 
Before    it,    taste    and    memories  bow ; 

Those    grand    old    homesteads    and    their    gardens, 
We've   no    such    buildings   left    us    now ! 


The    "Old   South"    Speaks.  33 

The    Province-house    was    banished    lately, 

That    shops    might    stand    in    lengthened    row,  — 

But    how    I    miss    that    mansion    stately, 
Its    courts,  its    Indian    with    his    bow ! 

i 

Dear    Paddock's    elms !    my    friends    archaic, 

Horse-railroads    brought    you    to    your    doom ; 
The    City    Fathers,  too    prosaic, 

Destroyed    you    in    your    summer    bloom. 
I    heard    with    grief,    Improvement    summon 

Old    Brattle-church    its    square    to    flee ; 
I    look    in    vain    across    the    Common,  — 

The    Hancock    House    no    more    I    see. 

All    human    things    are    evanescent; 

Old    Boston    now    is    nearly    gone ; 
And    yet    it    would    be    very    pleasant 

To    see    the   Twentieth   Century   born, — 


34  Poems   of  the    Old   South. 

To    be    the    link,    together    keeping 

Three    centuries    with    one    life    instilled, 

Down    time's    majestic    stream    still    sweeping,  - 
An    ark,  with    sacred    memories    filled. 

So    sacred !     is    there    aught    surrounding 

Our    lives    like    that   great   Past    behind, 
Where    Courage,    Freedom,    Faith,    abounding, 

One    mighty    cord    of    honor    twined?  — 
A    cord    no    rushing   years    can    sever, 

So    long   as,    looking    up    to    me, 
Floating    around    my   walls    forever, 

Those    pure    Ideals    all    shall    see. 

But   when    your    children    tire    of    keeping 
The    landmarks    of    their    fathers'    day, — 

Forget   the    ashes    'round    them    sleeping, 
And    cast   their   sacred    shrines    away,— 


The    u  Old    South "    Speaks.  35 

Let    monuments    of    peace    and    war    go, 
Keep    only    Cotton,    Leather,    Pork ;  — 

Boston    will    be    a    poor    Chicago, 
Or    else    a    miniature    New    York. 

My    time-stained    walls    the    crosses    cover, 

Of    well-spent    years    the    living    proof; 
The    ghosts    of    patriots    'round    me    hover 

Whose    voices    rang    beneath    my    roof. 
Though    prouder    domes    are    elsewhere    swelling, 

And    loftier    spires    salute    the    morn, 
Let    Boston    save    the    plain    old    dwelling 

Where    Freedom    for    mankind    was    born. 


90275 


THE  UNIVERSITY  LIBRARY 
This  book  is  DUE  on  the  last  date  stamped  below 


JUL  2  k  1948 
AUGI3J949 


195& 


E  C  E  I 

MAIM  LOAN 


VED; 


A.M. 


P.M. 


firm  L-9-15m-7,'35 


T.ners . 

-Poems    of  -the    "Old 
South" 


?  .     '       '    .-        , 

^ 

JUN  1 

2  1930 

vs 


